


#17: Library

by RocioWrites



Series: 20 words [17]
Category: Jurassic Park III (2001)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 01:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11795490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocioWrites/pseuds/RocioWrites
Summary: You’re done and ready to move on.And yet—Here you are. Huddled in the library’s farthest corner. As if in punishment, as if you’re expecting some other students or professors to exchange muffled insults about your mental health or Alan’s or both. Like you want to be dissuaded after all that self-motivational monologue.





	#17: Library

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly, I think this got way too close for comfort. It’s probably OoC and a bit too much of the emotional introspective angst I enjoy. Decided to post it either way because this fandom is quite small and I love me some Alan/Billy, hope someone out there does too!

You’ve heard the rumors, the whisperings behind your back. Hell, if you’re in one of those bad days, you’ll even believe them.

You’ve heard them talk and talk and _talk_ — about how Dr. Grant must have had something to do with your good grades, about how you surely are taking advantage of a silly old man in love, about how tragedy brought you two together and you’re destined to crumble, about how both of you are too broken and will only hurt each other in the end. You’ve heard it all, deconstructed your feelings until you fell asleep in pained tears. You’ve told yourself all of these excuses and recriminations and more.

You’ve said some of them to Alan in self-destructive rampages too.

But you’ve seen death. Way too close for comfort. You’ve seen faithlessness, you’ve seen blood and desperation and fuck all those rumors, fuck all that discontentment, fuck it all because life is too short, too uncontrollable, too unpredictable and you’re tired, so fucking tired even if you recently graduated and are young in everyone’s books. You’re exhausted of pretending not to love Alan, exhausted of doubting what you feel. You’re done waiting, even if the rumors increase if you so much as look at Alan for a minute too long.

It’s funny in a way, all these professional adults judging and prying into your life – it’s pathetic to be honest. All the whispering and murmuring in hallways and in between classes. In the library, once, you hear how two renowned professors express their disgust, hushed words that aim to sting. You were having a good day that day, so you laughed, loud enough for them to hear, to know you were there. And you never revealed to anyone how that weekend you couldn't get out of bed, those insults weighing you down.

You’ve cowered before, thinking that what people might say will be more important than what you feel. Oh you’ve been so wrong back then, past relationships suffering because of this too. But not anymore, you need to stop this concern, you need to let your heart guide you on this. You need Alan to recognize what’s been so clear before and it’s even more obvious now. There are no life-threatening situations that can’t put your lives into perspective and there is that, Ellie Sattler being a savior and a good friend but not a lover, and you’re right here, body and mind, real and warm. Alan must see it, should understand. Because this is a shared emotion – you need Alan to show his true intentions. Or you will lose your mind. Maybe you’ve already lost it.

You’ve been biting your lips nonstop, mind flying a mile per hour. You’ve also been biting your nails, not even stopping when blood shows up. You’re hurting in more ways than one. And yes, there are good days but there are also bad ones. Sometimes you believe that punishing voice in your brain that says you’re useless, just a needy boy who wants to monopolize Alan’s attention.

And a part of that is true. On your best days you can separate lie from reality to get your confidence back. That cheeky smile Alan admitted to adore.

On good days, you’re done wallowing in self-pity, done withering under the pressure your worst thoughts put upon you. You almost _died_ , you know first hand what it’s like to be afraid for your life, for the life of the one you love. You’ve seen despair, you’ve felt it freezing your blood in your veins, you’ve regained your faith when you laid eyes on Alan in that helicopter, you’ve felt giddy and wobbly from pain-killers and confessed how afraid you were and how in love you still are—

You were hopeless too. Doubting everything because traumatic experiences have a way to mess up your brain. You were fucked up, you _are_ fucked up.

And Alan knows it. He is fucked up too.

And that is okay.

You can both be messed up and face it together, be patient with each other.

What everyone else says, it doesn’t have to matter. The whispers, the lies, all that doesn’t matter. Rumors of foolish professors, older than the dinosaurs. Gossip born from bored students that don’t know any better. You are _done_. With all that shit and with your own shit. It is time to sort it out. And Alan needs to catch up.

Or not.

And that would be devastating but you’re so tired, exhausted even. Physically and emotionally. You’ve been dragging around your fears and traumas and insecurities all this time, always just about to push Alan for an answer but never actually doing it. You’re despairingly sick of your own trepidation.

You’re finally having good days more than bad ones – or at least quiet days instead of unbearable bad ones. Your lips and nails are finally healing. Your broken bones have healed too. You wish your heart and mind got cured just as quickly.

But you ready yourself mentally, you need to move on. With Alan by your side preferably. You’ve told yourself this countless of times, waiting and hoping you finally make your move. It is hard, to be brave and bold when you’ve been confined to your own dread and how can you even be sure things will work out in the end?

There’s a part of you that _knows_ Alan loves you back, but the misery is instilled in your heart. Regaining your courage isn’t easy. You want to be honest, you want to be able to sleep at night with Alan’s body heat beside and stop fearing he will vanish as if you’re still trapped in that nightmarish island. Regaining your own senses altogether isn’t easy either.

You struggle. Although you’re tired, you’re still struggling. Maybe your better days are a signal and you want to listen to this, you _want_ to move on. From this pain, from this loneliness.

You’re done and ready to move on.

And yet—

Here you are. Huddled in the library’s farthest corner. As if in punishment, as if you’re expecting some other students or professors to exchange muffled insults about your mental health or Alan’s or both. Like you want to be dissuaded after all that self-motivational monologue.

Sitting down because you still feel a bit of residual pain on your healed bones. And your knees get weak and your whole body trembles awfully when you spend too much time just thinking inside your own head. A dark place to be, if you’re honest. Back rigid with pressure and stress and plain old _fear_.

It’s a vicious cycle you’re caught up into. And you want to laugh hysterically at this, almost manic and desperate for some well-deserved peace. However, while the elephant in the room isn’t acknowledged, you cannot have tranquility.

That elephant is your relationship with Alan. The one everyone else feels the need to whisper about, being nasty at worst and inconsiderate at best. How could this go for so long? Here at the university, in the dig site, surely amongst Alan’s friends. How come all this guilt is drowning you?

And the library is all silent, darkening sky outside, with this heavy atmosphere you feel like you’re literally drowning. Stomach dropping, cold sweat running down your spine, hands clammy, heart hammering, lungs stuttering. You’re probably going to be sick but you can’t bring yourself to stand up and leave.

You close your eyes. It doesn’t really help and that’s okay, you’re used to this, fighting down the gags threatening to make you vomit all over the table – it’s not like you’ve actually eaten anything in the last twelve hours anyway.

It’s sad but you know how this story goes. You wish, pray, _beg_ for some ill-intentioned asshole to cross your path so you have a rightful reason to lash out. Here, now. Someone who so much as implies you’re irreparably broken.

It won’t happen, you know. Everyone knows better than that now. All you will do is sit here quietly, waiting for Alan to pick you up. You will say nothing to him because all that bullshit about you being done and wanting to move on and confess your feelings is just that, _bullshit_. Pretty lies. An all encompassing speech you never deliver to your loved, grumpy Alan. Who is basically as damaged as you; however, you don’t say it.

You’re so frustrating to deal with. You go to dark places and come back empty-handed and nothing comes out of it in the end.

Your pulse beats raggedly fast and your eyes are still closed, white noise in your ears.

“Hey.”

It is closing time after all, Clarice always has the mind to call Alan and let him come for you before it’s too dark outside.

You don’t startle until he touches your arm, snapping your eyes open suddenly.

“Alan.” You say. And it sounds hoarse and scared.

“Billy.” He replies instinctively. “Let’s get you out of here, come on.”

He is soft, helping you up, hands warm and careful. You always astonish at the way he treats you so tenderly as if he’s simply waiting for you to break like a tall, frail ornament of glass and crystal.

You watch him, you truly do. With wide eyes and shaking hands that cling to him. You are getting better and this hasn’t happened in _months_. You remember you’re here because you drove yourself into a frenzy, thinking, hating yourself for being weak.

Yet, Alan is here. Once again. Smiling that lopsided grin he smiles that it’s adorable when you focus enough and stop being _that_ near to a panic attack. Patient, he’s nothing but patient and adoring. You don’t doubt he loves you but sometimes it’s just hard to believe it.

“I love you.” You blurt unexpectedly, shocking yourself. You’ve never said it out loud even when you’re sure Alan knows it already. His smile widens and he nods, a rosy pink on his cheeks. It’s all so damnable endearing. “I mean it.” You try again, stalling.

Clarice is, as to be expected, nowhere in sight. The two other guys who work here know better than to be around for these occasions.

You can talk without noisy eavesdroppers.

“I love you too, Billy.”

Your breathing halts, your internal organs feel like they’re doing weird somersaults. You cling to Alan for dear life.

“You—”

“I mean it too.”

“Oh.”

A few steps later, “You’ve never made a move on me. We’ve never done more than flirt, how was I supposed to know?” Which is false because somehow you knew.

Alan looks at you, fondly annoyed. “How were _you_ supposed to know?” A bark of a laughs echoes in the empty room. “How was _I_ supposed to be sure.” But it’s not poised as a question and you want to shrink in on yourself. “How could I have made a move when all you did was flirt and nothing more? And then everything happened and you were—”

“All fucked up.”

“— _recovering_. I didn’t want to take advantage of you while vulnerable.”

“Alan I—”

 _I will always be vulnerable_ , you want to say. _I will always be on recovery_.

“I’m an old fool, all right?” You can’t bring yourself to answer considering how your mind has been all over the place. “But you still love me, with all my flaws. So I am a lucky man after all.”

You smile, sharp. Happy because you’ve finally said something, shocked it was like this though. And you just got positive feedback!

“Alan, I am a mess.” You point out in a sigh because you’re still a bit realistic beyond that idealistic streak that’s been eroding on the edges.

How he can look at you so fond and sweet is unexplainable.

“Really, Billy? Have you even met me?” He says, reaching for the hat he isn’t wearing right now, a habit he hasn’t learned to shake despite being for so long in academic premises. It makes you laugh a bit. “I’m a terrible mess as well. A huge, terrible walking mess.”

“You’re not – that.” You protest through Alan’s incredulous arched eyebrow. “Yes, we are.” You amend in a low tone.

“It’s not a bad thing, I know you know this. It doesn’t mean we can’t be loved and love back.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Alan nods and you start walking again, swiftly, in synch, clinging to him.

Until you have the urge to stop.

“You’re not surprised. You also knew it.” You feel like accusing him a bit but your huge smile defeats the purpose.

The half smirk is atypical but oh so great. “I was hoping for it, yes.”

You’re not even sure if you’ve stop shaking at all but you feel so feeble, embarrassing blush showing up on your face. You want to say it again and again and again until _I love you_ starts sounding like the most common prayer of all.

“I love you, Dr. Alan Grant.”

It sits right with you. And also with Alan, he’s leaning into you, soft, almost slow-motion. Your life has gone from a scary movie to drama to romance in a matter of half a year. His lips are chapped, much like yours but it’s all you want and need and more.

And when you separate, Clarice is right there, clearing her throat and pretending she hasn’t just intruded.

“It really is time for you to go, dear.” She says, all tender in her elderly compassion.

It’s late and you’re feeling so giddy you want to laugh and embrace Alan until everything else disappears – even your fears.

“Sorry.” You barely manage to utter and taking Alan’s hand in yours, you hurry out.

Clarice sing-songs a goodbye, glad she can finally close the library and a part of you feels bad about having her waiting. But that part is so tiny compared to the one in gleeful celebration because Alan has kissed you and is squeezing your hand and you’ve finally confessed—

You do laugh now and Alan looks so at peace, it’s wonderful.

You know you’re both messed up. And you’re still going to have bad days from time to time – Alan will too. You’re aware this hasn’t changed the fact that you’ve had traumatic experiences and you’re still dealing with a lot. But it feels lighter somehow.

And _yes_ , they will talk. Like they’ve always done. It’s cringe-worthy but definitely not the most important thing about this whole mess of a life you two share. Besides, some rumors will be true now.

There are no magic solutions, you know, and pretending that a romantic relationship will cure your problems is just foolish. However, you need this happiness, Alan’s warmth. You will deal with the guilt on bad days and try to rationalize you’re not being in extreme greedy or selfish.

You’re only trying to live.

Let them talk. Let them whisper between rows of books, hushed and angry because life hasn’t beaten you enough to not stand up again. In fact, life has done just that to you and to Alan – still you’re here. That’s what matters.

“Are you okay?” He asks when you don’t stop smiling, shaking only due to coldness.

“Yes.” There’s no doubt. “Take me home?”

Alan snorts. “Sure.”

Home is a small dormitory on campus. Home is Alan’s office couch. Home is a dirty trailer. Home is an inflatable mattress. Home is a rented motel near Ellie’s house. Home is Ian’s snickering. Home is Eric’s e-mails. Home is the farthest corner of the library.

Home is Alan’s arms.


End file.
